The days dragged slowly by, and, though Dragonfel was not actually rough in the treatment of his captives, he still was most unkind in depriving them of the liberty for which they continually sighed. They were watched and spied upon continually, so there was little or no chance for escape.
He endeavored to provide amusements for which they had no heart, and was a sorry host at best. In his crude efforts to entertain them he welcomed all ideas for sports and diversions, so when on one occasion they were all together, and his prisoners seemed unusually depressed, he sat upon his throne knitting his brows in trying to think of something that might cheer them up a bit.
In the midst of his unsuccessful cogitations the Demon Usher half skipped, half flew, to him, and prostrated himself at his feet.
“Kind master!” he cried, in a flutter of excitement.
“What is it?” asked Dragonfel.
“A band of wandering minstrels outside humbly crave permission to play before you.”
“What, another?” said Dragonfel. “Show them in!”
The words he used were hospitable enough, but the tone of his voice boded little good for the daring musicians.
